The morning the Ensenada pier filled with fog, Don Ernesto Salgado had no idea that the quiet routine he clung to for survival was about to unravel into something that would reopen wounds he had buried for more than a decade. Every dawn, he came to the same bench, carrying a thermos of weak coffee and a heart full of memories he never spoke aloud. The sea was the only thing that listened without judgment. The mist wrapped around him like an old blanket, hiding the world and softening the noise in his head.
He sat straight despite his age, his back still trained by years of discipline, his hands resting on his knees as if awaiting instructions that would never come. On this particular morning, a German Shepherd had appeared out of nowhere, emerging silently from the fog and stopping in front of him as though summoned by something neither of them understood. The dog had not barked or hesitated. It simply walked up, studied the old man with intense dark eyes, and then lay down at his side, pressing its body close.
